Breathe Me
by 50ShadesofCray
Summary: Ever wonder how Andy Flynn kicked the habit? Set in the 1980s. (AU)


He had done it again, and this time it had earned him a two-week suspension without pay effective immediately. Somehow in a short amount of time, he had lost his bearings and his life spiraled out of control, downward into a dark abyss. One drink led to another, and yet another until he found himself surrounded by empty bottles. Whiskey was his poison and it invaded every cell of his being until he was powerless under its control. It had happened gradually. The liquor slowly enchanted him, beckoning him when he thirsted, and promising to sate him. It had allowed him to think he had control, at first, but then he gave up control for the wonderful numbness the liquid spread throughout him when he was under its spell. In that state of feeling completely devoid of any care in the world, he lost sight of his life and of everyone in it. His only purpose for living was to drink. The last remaining tendril of his subconscious that had amazingly deflected corruption by the alcohol that constantly barraged his body emitted an awareness from somewhere in the dark recesses of his mind that he was hurting himself and everyone that cared about him. He was aware on some level that he was putting everything he'd worked for at risk. Drinking was a game of Russian roulette. He could so easily lose it all at any moment, but another round of alcohol convinced him not to care. There was no safety net to catch him. He'd fallen flat on his face and was content to remain there, wallowing in his own disgrace and guilt.

This time he'd fallen asleep during a stake out. When he'd shown up for his shift, red-eyed and irritable, Detective Provenza knew immediately what was going on and tried like hell to get Andy to go home and sober up, but the stubborn idiot refused, saying he was fine. Provenza knew he wasn't fine. Andy wasn't stumbling around or slurring his words, but his other small missteps could only lead the the logical conclusion that the alcohol wasn't totally out of his system. His partner could smell the bottle of Jack Daniel's on him, as well as the sickeningly sweet perfume of the woman he'd been with. It infuriated Provenza; how many times had he threatened to kick Andy's ass straight? He'd warned Andy to kick the habit or it would be his ruin. He'd seen alcohol lead others to their ruin and he didn't want that for Flynn. Flynn had a great family and a flourishing career, and Provenza hated to see him throw it all away because he couldn't get his drinking under control. When the captain found out about Flynn showing up to a crime scene in yesterday's clothes, unwashed, and still drunk from the night before, he had no choice to to suspend him.

It wasn't the first time it had happened; it was merely one of a series of incidents involving Andy and alcohol while on the clock. The first time it had happened, the captain talked to Flynn, told him it was unacceptable for a detective to come to work under the influence. The detective blew it off, said it was a one-time thing. "It won't happen again," he had promised solemnly. Flynn was a pro, and one of the best detectives the LAPD had. Because of that, the captain was willing to give him another chance. It was Andy's first major infraction. He told Andy to clean up his act and to get his ass in line. The next chance was blown when the detective punched a suspect during an interrogation. Andy was known for having a temper, in fact his disciplinary file was littered with references to his hot-headed nature, but he usually kept it in check, or tried to, anyway. It generally never went further than yelling or kicking a chair. Frustration was allowed and even considered an occupational hazard, but this had transformed into a alcohol-fueled rage. Provenza saw the violence in Flynn's eyes when he had to pull his partner and friend off the suspect and cuff him. The suspect's nose was bloodied, the same blood coating the knuckles of Andy's hand, which now ached with the herculean force he used to beat the suspect. The captain was downright livid, however he'd strained himself in an attempt to be understanding since rumors were floating around the squad room that Flynn's marriage was on the rocks and that his wife had kicked him out. He warned his detective to straighten up, that the next time anything happened, he'd be forced to take action of a serious nature.

Things had been uneventful for a while. He kept his drunkenness secret, though Provenza knew. He still drank profusely; after work, he'd hit up a bar and spend money he didn't have on liquor and pour it down his throat, relishing the moment when it would turn him numb and oblivious. He wanted to not feel, to not think. Shot after shot burned down his throat. It reached the point that shots weren't enough; he graduated to a bottle. Everything that meant anything to him began slipping away. To function, he needed just a bit of it in his system. Even a tiny amount was enough to keep the demons away. For a while, Provenza would follow him to bars and pry the bottles from his fingers, or to hotels and pull the women off him. Sometimes Andy would crawl into the back seat of his friend's car and cry for the things he'd lost, blubbering and wailing incoherently, leaving the older man just shaking his head. There was a certain amount of pity he felt for his alcoholic friend, but mostly he just felt disappointment that rather than heeding his advice to seek help for his addiction, Flynn was throwing away a good career and a good marriage in preference for the bottle. His daughter was still too young to know what was happening, but it didn't escape her that her daddy had stopped coming home.

The third strike eventually happened, as everyone knew it would, when Andy passed out drunk on a stake out. Luckily, Provenza was on hand to apprehend the suspect they were supposed to be watching, but the captain was no less enraged at Flynn's behavior and disregard at the first two warnings he'd been given to shape up. He'd put his partner in danger, as well as himself. That coupled with Flynn's arrogant and bad attitude at having been brought before the captain helped earn him a two-week suspension with no pay with a warning that if he didn't get his alcoholism under control, the formerly brilliant detective would find himself without a job. To drown his sorrows and deal with his anger, he found the nearest establishment serving alcohol, his mouth parched and aching for a drink. He sat at the bar having just downed a third shot wondering just how long it would take him to screw up his last chance. He would be back on the job in two weeks, but knew it was only a matter of time before he screwed up again and was fired. His life felt like he was on a kind of amusement park ride just waiting for the big finale. Loosening his tie, he ordered another shot.

"No. No, he won't be having another. How much do I owe you?"

Turning around in his stool, he saw the lady from Internal Affairs, the one who investigated incidents of misconduct while on duty or whatever it is they do. He'd seen her go into his captain's office after he was dismissed, most likely to talk about him. Her name was Karen or Sharon or something, but everyone in the office referred to her as Darth Raydor. He'd seen her around, had heard the stories about her, and didn't like her one bit. He didn't like serious people with no sense of humor, and he especially didn't like people who made it their jobs to meddle in the affairs of others. Everyone that had ever had the misfortune of knowing her likened her to the Wicked Witch of the East, which said a lot about who she was.

"I don't need you to babysit me," he answered caustically before turning back to the bartender. "I'll be having another."

"Detective Flynn, gather your things. I'll drive you home." She was terse with her words, and wasn't giving him any room to argue. He would just have to make room, then.

"I told you, you're not my babysitter."

"Detective Flynn, do you know who I am?"

"Yeah, didn't a house fall on you at some point? I seem to remember ruby slippers and a yellow-brick road," he laughed, as did the guy sitting next to him who'd been listening in on the exchange.

The woman didn't flinch or back down, but her words became more crisp. "I am Detective Sharon Raydor with the Internal Affairs Group. I will be the one who determines if you get to keep your job or not."

"Wait a minute," Andy whipped around to face her again. "The captain told me that I could come back in two weeks."

"He did, but you are a liability to the LAPD, and that's where I come in. You fell asleep during a stake out, you punched a suspect until he bled, and you have shown up to work under the influence more than just a couple of times. You are showing very poor judgment, a lack of control, and that is a concern. You already have a string of disciplinary actions in your record, and now this. The LAPD cannot-"

"You can take the LAPD and shove it up your ass, lady!" he yelled angrily before turning back to the bartender. "I thought I told you I wanted another drink!" But the bartender didn't move, looking instead at Detective Raydor, whose mouth was drawn into a thin line, her eyes boring fiercely into his customer. She wasn't about to back down; she firmly held her own, despite the insults hurled cruelly at her. And she was packing.

She continued undeterred, "The LAPD cannot take the risk of keeping you on the force if you continue down the same path you've been on. And we both know what path that is." She pointedly eyed the empty shot glasses in front of him.

He looked her in the eye and said without a care, "Listen, write up what you want. You wanna picture of me taking a drink so you can go ahead and fire me? Get your camera out because sooner or later, I'm going to get fired anyway. So, just do us all a favor and get it over with."

Detective Raydor stepped closer and spoke to him with a firm, even voice. "Detective Flynn, either you come with me willingly or I will use force on you."

Amused, Andy gawked at the petite woman in front of him and laughed. There was no way someone as small and as slight as she could make him do anything. He turned his back to her and before he knew what was happening, she'd grabbed his hands and handcuffed him.

"What the hell? You can't do this to me! I haven't done anything illegal!" he exclaimed, furiously rattling the handcuffs that imprisoned his hands.

"I didn't say you did. Did you hear me read you your rights? Come on, let's go." She tugged on his cuffs.

He stood up and kicked his stool so vehemently that it fell over. "I should report you to somebody! You can't go around handcuffing people for no damn reason!"

"I have a perfectly good reason, Detective Flynn," she responded, as she led him outside. Opening the door to the passenger's side of her car, she helped him into the seat.

Once she got in the car, he asked sarcastically, "Oh yeah, what's that?"

Retrieving a file from her purse, she opened it up. "You've been with the LAPD for eighteen years and during your service, you have brought numerous criminals to justice and closed a record number of cases."

"So?" he scoffed.

"Do you know how many families you've helped?" she asked, amazed at the detective's apathetic attitude toward his many achievements and obvious talent. "How many sons and daughters, mothers and fathers have you found? Dead or alive, you've helped give these families closure, helped them heal. It also says that you're a decorated officer and that twice you've saved the life of a partner..."

"Do we have to go over this?" he rolled his eyes and sighed impatiently. He knew his record with the LAPD, and he also knew none of it mattered anymore. Nothing mattered except the taste of the bitter amber liquor he craved so much that it had become his friend, his partner, and his lover. It consumed him. It had reduced him to nothingness and he lived for nothing else except to taste it. It made him forget. He knew that once it burned down his throat, it wouldn't be long until he would feel better. It made him feel light, and it took the pain away. He desperately needed another drink and to get away from this lady.

"You asked for a reason, and I gave you more than fifty. And that doesn't even cover your wife or your daughter," she read quickly down the page, searching for his daughter's name. "Nicole."

"They don't deserve someone like me. They deserve someone better," he mumbled, suddenly sober at the mention of his little girl. However, it also instantly provoked his anger. This woman knew nothing about him except for what was in his file with the LAPD. It was her job to meddle in people's lives, to end careers, and to be a pain in the ass. Oh, how he hated her! He suddenly knew all to well why she was so thoroughly disliked. "But that's none of your goddamn business! Take these handcuffs off me!"

Quietly replacing the file in her purse, she turned on her car and began to drive. "Where do you live?"

"Why?"

"I'm going to drop you off at home."

"Well, I don't live where I used to live."

"All right," she said calmly. "How about a hotel?"

"I drank my money. What else was I going to do with it?" he snorted unrepentantly.

"Live on it? Give it to your wife to care for your daughter?" she snapped, impatient with the flippant way he was treating this situation.

"Leave them out of this," he growled. She had struck a nerve.

"Why? They're very much in this, thanks to you. They are suffering because of the choices you make. It's not only hard to be an alcoholic, Detective Flynn, but it's hard loving one, too."

"Save your pseudo-analysis of my life. I'm not interested." He looked out the window.

"It is very obvious that you're not interested. Detective Flynn, you are one of the best detectives the LAPD has. More than that, you have a wife and a child who depend on you, who love you." Her voice became very soft, but still retained the firmness of earlier. "If you can't help yourself for your sake, do it for theirs. It's-it's never too late to change."

Andy grumbled, but didn't say anything. There was nothing to say. This woman that he didn't know, but was sure he hated, was driving him around Los Angeles, prying into his business, speaking about things she didn't know anything about. She couldn't possibly know how he felt about his wife and kid. She had no right mentioning them. All the sudden, it dawned on him that he hadn't talked to his little girl in over a week. Time passed quickly when it was spent drowning at the bottom of a bottle. He wondered how much she'd grown in that time. Kids her age were always growing, doing new things. He wondered how much he'd already missed out on. What if she'd forgotten him? What if she hated him? She had every right to be ashamed of him, and the thought was almost unbearable. He wished he was pouring a drink down his throat. It was thoughts like these that drove him to seek comfort elsewhere. They pulsated relentlessly in his mind, reminding him of his failures, until the shame and despair became too much to navigate through. Sometimes, it felt better just to drown.

Still lost in his thoughts when the other detective pulled into a parking space, he didn't snap out of his reverie until she placed a hand on his upper arm gently. "I'll help you out of the car."

When his door opened, she helped pull him from the seat. He glanced around the neighborhood. "Where the hell are we?"

"I live here," she gestured to the apartment building in front of them. "Eleventh floor."

"You going to take the cuffs off me now."

"Mmmno," she hummed.

"And why not?"

"You can run a lot faster than me," she replied with a twinkle in her eyes as they walked through the door of the lobby.

Once they were inside the detective's condo, Andy, still in cuffs stood awkwardly by the front door, unsure of what he should be doing.

"Please, have a seat on the couch. I'll be with you in a minute." She turned to talk to a much younger girl as he made his way to the living room, maneuvering between toys and books. Unfortunately, having his hands tied behind his back coupled with the alcohol dulled his dexterity, causing him to trip over a very large Lego fortress. He crashed to the floor with a loud thud.

"Detective Flynn?" her worried voice called out to him.

"Don't worry," he groaned. "My ass broke the fall."

After saying a quick goodnight to the girl, the other detective ran over to help Andy off the floor. "Are you hurt?"

"No, but I might have a permanent scar in the shape of a Lego on my knee."

She put him on the couch while she bent over and started picking up all the toys. "I'm so sorry. My son loves to play with his toys, but he's less enthusiastic about picking them up." She looked over her glasses to smile at him, her mop of brown hair obscuring most of her face.

"You have a son?" he asked, his eyebrows disappearing into his own black hair. It was a shocking revelation. She didn't seem like she could be anyone's mother. She seemed like the type of person that would eat her young.

"Mmmhmm. His name is Ricky and he's four years old. Loves Legos, cars, and _Star Wars_."

Andy couldn't believe someone actually married this woman, let alone reproduced with her. A lot of alcohol must've been involved. He knew officers who'd been investigated by her. She loved rules; she loved making them and then making everyone else follow them. To the letter. One of the worst things that could ever happen to anyone who worked at the LAPD was to be called into Sharon Raydor's office. The woman was ruthless and had ended the careers of many people; and didn't seem the slightest bit sorry about it. Probably got off on it. No wonder they called her Darth Raydor. He was surprised she didn't have to travel with an entourage of bodyguards at all times to guarantee someone didn't take a shot at her.

"Someone married Darth Raydor?" he snorted.

She snapped her head up to look at him for a couple of seconds, her face inscrutable, then changed the subject. Clearing her throat, she asked in a low, almost muted voice, "Are you hungry? I was thinking of making some dinner."

He almost felt bad for letting it slip what anyone else in his position would ask if they'd found themselves in handcuffs in Darth Raydor's apartment, discussing her alleged private life. It _was_ Darth Raydor they were talking about here! "I, uh..."

"It's just going to be something simple." She tossed the toys into the toy box and walked into the kitchen, seemingly glad to put a little distance between herself and her guest.

It was a long while before either one of them spoke again. He smelled the food as it cooked; it caused his stomach to grumble, and he suddenly became cognizant of the fact that he hadn't eaten at all that day. He purposely refrained from making eye-contact with the detective. For some reason, he felt a little bad about calling her Darth Raydor to her face. It wasn't clear why he was feeling any kind of remorse at all. This lady was annoying as hell and butting in where she didn't belong. She was also the one that was going to determine if he would be going back to work...or be fired. There was something in her face, though, that struck him. Hurt, maybe? Did Darth Raydor even have feelings? He had become acquainted with the legendary icy veneer of Sharon Raydor through the many breakroom anecdotes his co-workers had shared over the years. One of the most popular running jokes in the LAPD was, "Where do you put your beer if you want to keep it cold?", the punchline being, "Between Sharon Raydor's legs." And for good reason! He wasn't sure she had feelings like normal people; she always stood out from the rest of them, seeming to prefer a healthy distance and then some between herself and everyone else. But yet he couldn't rid himself of the notion that he could detect a hint of sadness in her face. Maybe it was the alcohol talking...but he hadn't had enough to make him start seeing things...had he? He felt so confused. If he only had another drink, he could kill the confusion, and simply not care.

At that moment, Sharon walked over to him and unlocked the cuffs. As they slipped off, he rubbed his wrists. "You're setting me free?"

"Yes, but you should know, if you try to run, I'm really good with a gun." It was uncertain whether she was joking or not, but Andy thought he should probably not do anything to find out. In her bare feet, she walked to the stove to retrieved the pasta. "Would you set the table, please? The plates are up there," she pointed to a cupboard and then opened a drawer. "The silverware is in here."

Andy scratched his head, but did has he was told. She certainly liked giving orders, that's for sure. Clumsily, he sat the table for two as she put the food in the center. It wasn't much: fettuccine alfredo, a salad, and bread. She filled the glasses with water and sat down to eat. Andy followed suit, hesitantly.

"I don't remember the last time I had something homemade," he remarked.

"It's from a box and a can. Hardly homemade," she allowed a taut smile to play on her lips as she helped herself to some salad.

"All my meals lately have involved bottles."

"I'm sorry, Andy." She experimented using his first name as evidenced by the unsure way it came out of her mouth. Her voice was soft and there was something in her eyes that made him think she was being sincere, despite her reputation for being aloof. "It's tough, isn't it?"

"Yeah. Yeah, it is." He was blindsided by her sympathy. She was the first person to ever apologize to him over this, and she didn't even have anything to apologize for! Most people had yelled at him to get his shit together. Provenza had raked his ass through the coals more than once, and his wife had screamed and pleaded with him until she got tired of it and threw him out of their house.

"It's not easy to have a problem and feel like you can't do anything about it."

Unceremoniously, he thew down his fork in disgust and sat back in his chair like an obstinate toddler. "I know what you're doing. I'm a detective, too, remember? I recognize your tactics. This gonna go in your file on me?"

"I'm not using any tactics. And no, this isn't going into any file." She took a sip of her water and paused to collect her thoughts. Proceeding cautiously, she continued, "I am genuinely sorry that you're hurting. I'm not saying that as Detective Raydor to Detective Flynn; I'm saying it as Sharon to Andy."

Surveying her critically in an effort to gauge her honesty, he decided to give her the benefit of the doubt, though he wasn't sure she deserved it. He picked up his fork and resumed eating. "You're the first person who's said that to me."

"I guarantee you that I'm not the first person who has thought it. I am sure that other people feel the same way, they just don't know what to say. Sometimes it's difficult to know what to say to someone who is hurting."

"Yeah, well... Provenza always knows what to say." Andy replied sarcastically and suddenly became very interested in his food. Sharon decided to let it go for now.

After the dishes had been loaded into the dishwasher and the leftovers put away, Sharon joined Andy on the couch. She let a few moments pass quietly before speaking up in a soft voice. "Andy, I want you to do something for me."

He wearily dragged his eyes to look at her. "And that is?"

"I want you to call your daughter."

"No. No, no, no. She doesn't want to hear from me," he protested bitterly. "She doesn't want to hear from her drunk of a father. She probably hates me, probably thinks I abandoned her." If there was ever a time he wanted a drink, it was right this minute. Why did this lady have to keep bringing up things that weren't any of her concern? He jumped up, visibly agitated, and began pacing the floor between the coffee table and the television.

"How old is she?" asked Sharon in that same calm, soft voice. Her eyes followed his movements.

"Three."

"At that age, children don't see their parents' flaws or shortcomings, Andy. She just knows that you're not there. That's all that matters to her."

"Why don't you mind your own goddamn business? You're in everyone else's business all the time! Did you ever think to mind your own business and let everyone else live their own lives?" he practically shouted at her, running a shaky hand nervously through his hair. "Do you know what people call you? Darth Raydor. Do you know why they call you that? Because you involve yourself where you don't belong, where you're not wanted! And because you come across as an ice cold bitch!"

She swallowed hard and obscured her eyes purposely with her glasses, somehow maintaining her composure, which made him seethe even more. He wanted to see her crumble, to see her in pain like he was. "Andy, my son is asleep down the hall. Please keep your voice down." She sat up, resting her elbows on her knees as she bent slightly forward. "How about this: you call Nicole and talk to her for two minutes. Just two minutes. Ask her about her day, answer a couple of questions from her, and then hang up." She wasn't even going to acknowledge what he'd just said to her. Always in control, always cool, calm, and collected. Darth Raydor, indeed.

Throwing himself down on the couch, he huffed, "I don't feel like answering any questions. I know you get some kind of sadist pleasure from asking people questions, but I hate answering them. What kind of answers am I going to give a three-year old?"

"What kinds of questions could a three-year old ask?"

"She doesn't want to talk to me," he reiterated, a little more distressingly.

"If she doesn't want to talk to you, then it'll be a short phone call, won't it?" she smiled and reached for the phone, handing it to him. With a sigh and a glare, he grabbed it out of her hand.

He punched in the number and waited for someone to pick up. Quiet and unassumingly, Sharon rose from the couch and retrieved a couple of blankets and pillows from her linen closet in the hallway. She tried not to listen to Andy's conversation, allowing him some semblance of privacy, but she couldn't help but overhear his angry whispers. She supposed he was talking to his wife. Of course his wife would be upset and was probably rightfully laying into him. There's no telling how long it's been since she'd heard from Andy. Added to that the stress of trying to take care of their young daughter by herself. On top of that, Sharon wasn't sure how they were doing financially. Andy had openly admitted to drinking away his money...

When Sharon delivered the blankets and pillows to the couch, Andy seemed to be more at ease. Serene, if that was even possible. She heard him say Nicole's name with a hitch in his voice. They were talking, and that's all that mattered. Reaching out, she patted his shoulder reassuringly and disappeared into her bedroom. She pretended not to notice the solitary tear that streaked down his cheek.


End file.
